


The Language of Flowers

by naturesinmyeye



Series: Flower Series - Choose Your Own Bouquet Tumblr Thank Yous [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future, Gift Fic, History, Missing Scene, Romance, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Number 2 of 5 in my Flowers Challenge on Tumblr. </p><p>A rather literal interpretation of AdultOrphan's bouquet. Monkshood (a dangerous foe is near), Forget -Me-Not (memories, true love), and tulip (perfect lover). </p><p>Who would have thought the Hound would use flowers to talk to his Little Bird over the years?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdultOphan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=AdultOphan).



Sandor Clegane had her upper arm tightly in his grasp. He could span the breadth of it with one hand. The metal joints of his gauntlets pinched her skin between them but his actual touch did not. It was firm but not painful. It never was. Not like the others. The others grabbed her so tightly they left bruises. There wasn’t one mark of purple or faded yellow marring her skin with the Hound’s name on it.

 

His pace was hurried; a direct soldier’s march with purpose behind it. Sansa had to trot in order to keep her feet on the ground. He was angry. She could tell. It seemed as if he always angry with her. He made her feel so very much the child she still was. Though she’d flowered, Sansa was coming to realize that was not the thing that made a woman. Not completely.

 

The Hound had caught her on the steps _again_. This time though she didn’t stumble and nearly fall. She had tried to get by him with lowered eyes and hushed courtesies. He was having none of it.  He had yelled at her for leaving her room so late at night. Told her that she was damn lucky it was him that kept finding her. Then he’d taken her arm and pulled her along back to her rooms. Once there he shoved her inside gently and stepped into the room himself. He shut the door behind him though he didn’t bolt it. Sansa gulped.

 

“You have to stop this,” he hissed at her. “You can’t keep running around at all hours of the night. It’s not safe. You have to stop!”

 

“I can’t,” she answered, her voice trembling with tears.

 

“Why?” he demanded. His voice was low in pitch but his tone was hard, like all of him.

 

“I . . . I can’t. Please,” she begged, watching tears splash down on her hands.  She was torn. Could she trust him? Sometimes it felt as if she could. But he was Kingsguard! And Joffrey’s own personal guard on top of it! He couldn’t be trusted. Not now. All she could do was pray he’d let her be.

 

“Why can’t you go to the bloody woods during the day? You think I’m stupid?”

 

“N-no!” Sansa shook as she spoke. He wasn’t dull. That was certain. She’d learned that lesson on Joffrey’s name day. Sansa was sure he’d lied for her but she didn’t understand why.

 

Sandor looked at her for a long time. His nostrils flared while his eyes seemed to burn right through her. Such fury! It would take her years to understand that very little of it had ever been directed at her. It flowed inward when he stood near her. Then he sighed, rubbing his palm over his scarred features. He looked tired. His back thumped into the door behind him.

 

“The Little Bird can’t stand to look. Can’t stand to tell all either. Not to a loyal dog, eh?” he laughed darkly. Sansa wasn’t sure what he meant entirely.

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve displeased you-“

 

“Enough!” he barked. “If you can’t do anything other than chirp at me then stay silent!”

 

Sansa lowered her eyes again and was silent as he had asked. It was so difficult to tell when he was in the mood to receive kindness or not. His footsteps approached her. She kept her head down, staring at his boots. Then his covered hand was near her throat. Sansa gasped and waited. He never touched her. Sandor’s fingers hovered at the hollow of her throat where her heart beat could be seen; rapid and strong and just one breath away from brushing against him. She tore her eyes from his fingers to look at his face. It truly wasn’t so terrible in the candle light. If only he would soften his scowl he might make a decent sight.

 

“The purple one,” he stated, nodding his head and pointing at the space he’d nearly touched a moment go. Sansa blinked in confusion. “The big, gaudy one with the purple stone,” he continued. “Set in gold with diamonds on the clasp. You know it?”

 

He was speaking of one of her necklaces. Why in the name of all the Seven did he know such detail about it? She had worn that particular piece on the day her father had died. It was wrapped in a scarf and buried deep in one of her dresser drawers. Joffrey had given it to her. She never wanted to look at it again.

 

Sandor nodded again, taking his lower lip between his teeth. “It will work,” he said more to himself than her. “You listen to me, girl” He was back to addressing her. “You need to go to your Godswood, you wear that necklace during the day. You make sure I see it. Understand? I’ll take you there and back. It’s not safe. No where is safe. Do you understand me?” His voice had risen until he was nearly shouting at her again.

 

“I do!” she cried back.  Was he offering her an escort? Protection? But why?

 

Once more he nodded and Sansa felt one of her hands being clasped inside of his own. He squeezed it tightly, balling her hand into a fist covered by his massive glove of leather and iron. She could feel something tickle at her palm.

 

When he left, her hand shook, still tightly held in a fist. Her nails dug into her skin. Sansa’s heart fluttered and she felt ill. He knew! The Hound knew why she went to the Godswood! And yet, he hadn’t brought her before Joffrey or Cersei. He’d given her a way to tell him she wanted safe passage there and back.

 

Opening her hand, Sansa saw a cluster of three wilted purple flowers. Almost the same shade as the jewel in the necklace he’d told her to wear. The flowers were small, hooded blooms. Monkshood. But why would he give her a clutch of them? Sansa threw the buds upon her table and rushed to her bookshelves. Oh please, her mind begged, as her fingers frantically ran over the spines of her books. _Please tell me I brought it from Winterfell!_

 

There! Her fingers danced over the cover of a slim red volume. Sansa flipped through the pages while she struggled to breath. Her eyes found the page she wanted and she read the lines with haste.

 

_**Monkshood** _

_Not a flower of good fortune. Monkshood is a symbol for danger. A deadly foe is near by. Take care!_

Sansa felt her face pale as she sunk into the chair behind her. The Hound was trying to warn her. “A deadly foe,” she whispered out loud. And not just one, but three! Sansa felt her eyes fill once more with tears as she stared at the crinkled flowers before her.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

Two years later. One foe dead. One still living but far away. And one, a false father, sharing the same roof as she. Sansa sighed. The glass house of the Vale gave her a chance to think on her own, as she used to do in the Godswoods. There were small plants in the room and shrubs with berries. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes and took in their scent, it almost felt like home. It was nearly time for supper though. She should make her way back inside.

 

She took a side path to a back door near the kitchens and servants’ quarters. A bastard daughter could go where ever she liked without raising any questions. Petyr let her roam freely around the house and yard. She was never to go any further. Racing down a stone hallway, Sansa rounded a corner and smacked straight into a robed figure.

 

“Oof!” the man grumbled in front of her. It was a Brother; one of the monks from some distant Isle that had come to seek shelter at the Vale. There were maybe a dozen of them. They had arrived just three days ago. Right now they all walked in a straight line down the hallway in the opposite direction Sansa was running.

 

“I beg pardon!” Sansa sputtered, regaining her footing. “That was rude of me. Are you alright?”

 

The brown robed man nodded his head and gave her a half bow. His face was uncovered, unlike some of the others. None of them ever spoke a word. Sansa gave a quick, bobbed curtsy back and continued on her way. She counted the Brothers as she walked. _Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . ._

There were thirteen not twelve! The one at the end was tall. Huge even, with his face covered in rough spun wool. Sansa could only recall one other man in her life to reach such a height. But that man had no limp as the last Brother did. She missed him sometimes. And there had been dreams of him lately.

 

Sansa jumped when she felt her hand being tugged. The last Brother was clutching her hand and looking at her through the slit in his cowl and scarf. She could see his eyes. Angry, gray eyes. They shone in the light from the torch nearby. He nodded his head and turned swiftly to follow his Brothers.

 

Sansa quivered. She couldn’t move. Those eyes! She knew those eyes! No one had ever looked like that at her but the Hound. But how could it be? Last she heard he was off destroying the Salt Pans, though Sansa had never believed that particular tale. Then it had been rumored he’d boarded a ship and sailed far away. Sansa had tried to resign herself to the fact that she would never see him again. She would never be able to thank him for his protection. She would never get the chance at telling him that he had meant something to her; that she wished she meant something to him as well or that sometimes, when she was digging deep into the secrets of her heart, she suspected that she already did. 

 

There was paper in her hand. The tall Brother had placed a tiny, folded piece of parchment in her palm. Taking the steps ahead of her two at a time, Sansa flew to her room and bolted the door behind her. She lit a candle and spread the scrap of paper out on the flat surface of the oak table in her chamber. It was badly wrinkled but still legible.

 

_L.B._

_Tonight. Midnight. Alter of the Seven._

_S.C._

 

It was him! Sansa gulped for air. Then she laughed. Joyous, half crazed laughter that soon morphed into tears and hiccups. She didn’t know how or why but he was here! Through her tears she saw he’d drawn and colored a flower in one corner. A tiny star within another small star. And behind the two intertwined stars, a collar of petals. Swiping at her eyes Sansa stole to her chest and dug down to the very bottom. There, wrapped inside a battered, blood stained cloak, she found her red book on flowers. It took her longer this time to find his meaning. She had to keep comparing his drawing to the ones in her book. But when she found it, her breath hitched in her lungs.

 

_**Forget-Me-Not** _

_As the name might imply, a flower to represent memories. Also, a powerful symbol of true love._

 

Sansa shook and placed the note between the pages of the book. Somewhere in its depths three, pressed purple flowers slept as well. He wanted her to remember. Him? The memories they shared? But then why not draw her tea roses? Those were for remembrance! Why add on a nod to love? Sansa’s lips tingled with a kiss given years ago.

 

Hours later, Sansa snuck down into the belly of the house. Deep down into the cellars that held numerous stone rooms without windows. She had a single lamp with her that she used to guide herself to the Alter of the Seven used for worship by some in the household. The old wooden doors to the Alter creaked loudly as she pushed them open. There were torches lit along the walls. Oranges and reds bounced off the stones. There were unpolished benches set in rows and a large Alter made of speckled black granite at the very end of the room. There was a robed figure kneeling at the Alter; head bowed in silent prayer. The figure didn’t move as she entered. Sansa shut the door behind her, barring it with a beam of wood.

 

Leaving her lamp on a bench, she approached him. His head turned slightly at the noise. She stood beside him, pulling her cloak tighter around her. She was shivering from both cold and her wild emotions. The Brother was the height of her shoulder while he was on his knees. He looked up at her and for the first time Sansa noticed the bit of mottled skin around one of his eyes.

 

“Your hair looks stupid,” she heard the Hound’s muffed rasp speak from behind the Brother’s scarf. “What did you do to it?”

 

Sansa shouted in disbelieving surprise. Then she laughed for a second time that evening; it was loud and frantic. Laughing was the only thing keeping her from falling to the floor weeping. Before she was fully aware of her actions her arms were around his neck. She clung to him as if he were the only thing left to keep her alive. If she let go she’d die!

 

He didn’t put his hands on her but she could feel him press his cheek to hers for the briefest of moments. Then she heard him hush in her ear. “It’s alright, Little Bird. I’m going to take you away from here.”

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

The wheeled box bounced and rocked along the road. Sansa adjusted herself on the cushions nailed to the seats, mindful of the small lump in her belly. It was their first born and she was worried the bumps might loosen its hold inside her.  The babe had already survived a journey across the sea; she would have never taken the trip if she had known at the time she was with child. But she didn’t start to swell until they were already half way home.

 

He had kept his promise to her. The Hound, Sandor, had slain her second foe and taken her away with him. A year on the road they traveled. They nearly froze and starved a dozen times over. During that time she had chipped away at his anger, his fury, his hate. One night she had touched her lips to his burns and tasted salt near his eyes. They found coin, by chance, in a cave full of discarded armor and the bones of men.

 

Another year they remained hidden in a land warm and blessedly free of war. For a time he forgot who he’d been and so did she. But they didn’t forget what they were to one another. They posed as husband and wife and after a few months they weren’t pretending anymore. She had come to him in the night and put his hands on her; where she’d wanted them for such a long time. He was hesitant but once she touched both his face and his heat he’d been lost. She didn’t know why she’d been told it would hurt when her maidenhood ripped. When he pushed himself inside her, that first time, it had been nothing short of glorious.

 

A few weeks after, he stammered through a proposal. There was a Sept run by monks in their city; the only one for miles. Would she have him, Sandor had asked, a catch in his voice she’d never heard before. Her answer was a kiss as she pulled him to their shared bed.

 

The ceremony was brief. There was no one but the two of them. That night he made her sing and she returned the favor. There was nothing in the word that could compare to hearing him call out that he loved her.

 

Life had been good. Quiet, simple and plain during the day. But at night! At night they tore and bit and rutted! They spent hours drawing out his end, letting him stroke her from the inside while she fell apart over and over again. Other times it was she that teased him. She learned quickly how to send the Hound howling out into the night in bliss or brace Sandor when a part of him broke open to her for healing.  Her body caught both seed and tears from him. Sometimes she wept as well.

 

And then came the day when news from the west came to their door. The Lord of Winterfell, Brandon Stark was back and had claimed his rightful seat as Warden of the North. Sansa had cried but told Sandor they should stay. It was safer. He told her she could shove that idea up the Stranger’s arse. He was taking her home.

 

A knock came at the window, jarring Sansa from her thoughts. Leaning forward in her seat, Sansa pulled open the wooden shutters. A gloved fist came through the opening. Touching her hands to the bottom of his, Sandor’s fist opened and smacked something into her cupped fingers. Sansa smiled as his hand disappeared from her view. There, in her open palm, was a slightly crushed tulip.

 

 

 

 


End file.
